#a copy of your bazaarine tale

[the-insouciant-scientist]

A little fic regarding Caoimhe, communication, and the woes of trying to make and keep up with friends.

"Hey, do you... how can I put this gently?... do you actually have any friends?" 

Caoimhe bristled. "I do, in fact." She said, thoroughly avoiding eye contact.

"Name one." Cian challenged, flopping backwards over the arm of the couch to look at her across the room.

"Silvia." She replied quickly. Maybe too quickly. Damn it, why did he care?

He shook his head. "Nope, your crush doesn't count. Name one friend who you aren't making puppy dog eyes at the second you think she can't see."

Caoimhe grabbed the nearest pillow and threw it at him. He didn't bother to dodge in favor of spluttering dramatically at the assault. "Oh fuck off, I do not. And fine, yes, I have other friends too. For one, there's Digby."

Cian raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "The bandaged fellow you keep bringing soup to and then not actually talking with?" 

"I'm terrible with conversation, and he's also on the quieter side.” She said. “...As far as I know, at least. We're friendly, is the point, and there's some measure of trust there. Isn't that enough?"

He gave her a dubious look, but said nothing. 

"And there's Lieutenant Grace! We've even had tea together a few times, I left the house and everything. I've written to him a bit as well, and he's very kind. Uptight, but kind." 

"Look at you, leaving the house." Cian teased. "And when did you last speak with him?”

Her brow furrowed as she tried to recall. "...About a month ago?" She offered with a grimace. 

"You're a disaster. Write the man back already, for hell's sake, and anyone else you've been avoiding. Don't just drop off the face of the earth." Cian admonished, easygoing facade ceding to stubbornness.

"Bit late for that." Caoimhe muttered, just as stubborn, staring pointedly out the window towards the false-stars. But that wasn't all of what she meant, and they both knew it.

"You're not going to get a medal for going through things alone and miserable." He pointed out. "You're just going to be alone and miserable."

"Go to hell." She groaned, burying her face in her hands. "You think I don't know that? You think it doesn't fucking haunt me that almost no one would notice if I was gone, and it's all my fault because I barely know how to make friends anymore?"

His expression softened. "You just need practice, no shame in that. But you are going to write back to the friends you do have, and show me that you did, or else I'm dragging you out to a party tonight. You're socializing one way or another." He said, mock-stern. 

"That's not even a good threat." She complained, but he just gave her a shrug and a grin. "It's not! But fuck, fine, I'll write some replies. You're terrible."

"Oh, I know! But I'm terrible while still managing to knock some sense into you, and I'm going to a party tonight, so I'd say I'm doing pretty well." Cian said with an easy grin.

Caoimhe searched around for another pillow and threw that one at him too. He caught it this time, and promptly stretched out to bonk her over the head with it. Betrayal. 

"I mean it, though." He said after a moment of laughter. "Go write. Leave the house, see someone other than me. Have some fun, if you can remember how to do that."

"I know how to have fun." She replied with a withering glare, even as she wasn't quite sure. It didn't matter, though, because it still got her moving. "And fine, I'll go start on that, but I make no promises on the other things.”

"There's time, whether you want there to be or not." He singsonged, and Caoimhe left for her desk with a huff. 

He was right and she hated it. The time would pass anyways. Might as well do it with others around.

She grabbed her spare pen, uncapped her go-to blue ink, and did her very best to ignore the smug grin she could almost feel radiating off him. 

Bastard. 

She began to write.

[the-insouciant-scientist]

Another fic about the Princess being the worst joins the fray, even if it's not quite as Princess-centric as some of the others. It's just that kind of weekend, I think. Also, it's a gift for @the-dye-stained-socialite because I'm horrible <3

(Also written as a way for me to get out all sorts of horrible bad things on paper (keyboard?) while trying to write something genuinely sweet, because those things Can Not Mix in this situation lmao.) (AKA, how would red honey made from someone with amnesia work, both for the user and the one who was fed on? Here's one way, perhaps.)

[the-insouciant-scientist]

Harper fiddled with a touching love story, a letterlocked square of creamy ivory parchment faintly scented with violets. "A pleasure as always to see you, Mr. Wines. I, erm, don't suppose you've run out of Black Wings since we met last? I must... thank you for your generosity, of course, but that's the only spirit you've given me the past two dozen times you've had a sale." They said with a forced laugh. "I was wondering if, potentially, you might have something else?" Wines laughed, full-throated and resonant, for long enough that Harper's polite smile became rather strained. It wheezed, palm thumping against the table as if they had just told the funniest joke it had heard in millenia. "We thought you were supposed to be clever." It said in a high, shivery voice, plucking the love story free with a dainty claw before depositing yet another bottle of Black Wings Absinthe into Harper's outstretched hand. Harper suppressed a groan as they turned and walked away, and Wines's laughter followed the whole way down the sidestreet.

[the-insouciant-scientist]

I cannot in good conscience recommend you read ~800 words of Freud/May crackshipping, but let's be honest. Curiosity will be the death of all of us.

[the-insouciant-scientist]

Uh. Happy Almost-New Years! Here's about 8000 words of parabolan weirdness, emotional catharsis, and Harper having A Time with the Manager. Rated M for kink content, but it is nonsexual.

[the-insouciant-scientist]

@fallenlondonficswap @uniquezombiedestiny

For the general swap! Listen both our main characters are amnesiacs I had to do Something with that

Down Here Underneath

Maethyl Fallow & Harper Faraday, General Rating, 909 words.

Maethyl dropped back into her seat with a heavy sigh, a cup of steaming hot coffee warming both hands. It had been a hell of a morning, and she was looking forward to finally allowing herself to just sit and relax. She let her head loll backwards against the chair, tentacles curling gently around its wooden edges, when she heard a small cough across from her.

“Ah, hello?” A voice said. She looked up and half-winced when she realized she had not, in fact, found an empty table. How she had missed the pages upon pages of scribbling and scientific notation was beyond her. She squinted at her unexpected table-mate, who gave her an owlish look of surprise in response. 

“Sorry, I can move if you want me to. It’s been… a day.” Mae said after a moment. She really didn’t want to move, it was a very comfortable chair and she was tired, but it felt rude not to offer.

The stranger shook their head. “Oh, it’s no issue, really. Sorry about the mess.” They said sheepishly. Mae took a good look at them, from their unruly hair to their neathbow splattered labcoat worn unbuttoned, and came to the conclusion that this was probably as neat as they ever were. She shrugged, and they relaxed by a fraction.

After a moment of uneasy peace as they both tried to acclimate to each others’ unexpected presence, the scientist went back to their writing. Maethyl sipped at her coffee and tried not to stare too obviously. 

“So, what is all this?” Mae asked. The stranger looked up near-immediately, alight from the opportunity to talk about their work. 

“A collaborative experiment with my spouse, on mordants and fixatives. Some of their Neath-color dyes don’t stay in fabric well. Like gant, especially. Or irrigo.” they rambled, referencing a faded violet-ish stain along the hem of their coat. Mae’s vision slid across it no matter how hard she tried to focus.

“I see that color when I close my eyes, sometimes.” Mae said. 

The scientist perked up, rolling a fountain pen between their fingers. “Memory loss?” they asked, almost seeming excited at the prospect. Mae frowned. People always made such a fuss about her amnesia, once they found out.

After a moment she nodded, begrudgingly. “Can’t remember anything before waking up in a New Newgate cell a few months ago.” She took a small sip from her drink to break the tension.

They fluttered their right hand by their side, suddenly, surprise and delight twining in their expression. “It was a few years ago for me, but… I’m the same.” they said, softly. Mae choked on her coffee in surprise for a second, coughing. “Do you remember anything from before? Or just total amnesia.”

“Dunno. If I did remember any details I’d just forget that I did, so how would I know?” She replied. “Do you?”

“Understandable, given the nature of irrigo. Ah, I… Some? But not really. Mostly just snippets, stuff tied to senses. Sometimes I remember the scent of surface flowers, or the texture of a specific lace, or the feeling of sunlight, but… I completely lack context, or any specific details.”

Maethyl hummed in sympathy. “Sounds nice, at least.” 

Her conversational partner nodded after a moment, as if lost in thought, before speaking once more. “So, you’re still pretty new to the Neath then, if you only woke up in New Newgate a few months back. How has it been for you so far?”

Mae groaned, setting her coffee cup down and burying her face in her hands. A stray tentacle clung to one of her fingers. “Tried my hand at growing mushrooms and ended up in the middle of a warzone.”

The scientist winced. “That was a doozy. I’d like to say that was an outlier, as summers go, but from my observations it’s more pattern than coincidence. Augusts seem to just have a particular kind of trouble to them. And Thursdays, for that matter, especially at the end of any given month.”

“Eugh. Noted.” She replied, pinching the bridge of her nose. The scientist offered a wry smile, before it abruptly shifted into dawning realization. 

“Oh.” They breathed. “That was your first time ever seeing the sun, then.”

Mae instinctively hunched up her shoulders. “Yeah. Yours too. What did you think? I thought it was a bit shit. Bloody hurt, too. I’ll be ecstatic if I never have to feel that again.”

“Bright. Warm. Absolutely painful, yes. But… I don’t know. As I crashed up there, burning in sunlight, all I could think of was that it was breathtakingly beautiful. But that very well could have been the adrenaline talking.” The scientist said, fidgeting with their cosmogone-lensed spectacles.

“Can’t say I agree, but to each their own.” She said with a half-smile. They both let their gazes wander over the rest of the coffeeshop, deep in thought.

“I wonder, though, how many others there are out there like us. Whose lives basically began in prison, not even remembering what they did or didn’t do. Maybe we should start a club.” They said with a dry laugh.

“Neathy amnesiacs anonymous. Anonymous because all of us have a shitty memory, that is.” Mae joked. The scientist paused for a second, seemingly having trouble parsing the humor, before they smiled too.

“Neathy amnesiacs anonymous.” They echoed. Mae picked up her coffee cup in a mock-toast and drained the last of it.

[the-insouciant-scientist]

@fallenlondonficswap @house-of-mirrors

For the general swap! You said you'd like to read about Irem, and my brain just went... a little nuts with this concept. Hopes this makes sense, and uh. Sorry in advance about the tenses.

Will You Greet The Daylight Looming

Unnamed zee captain character, General Rating, 732 words. Slight spoilers for Irem.

You will arrive at Irem. You will always arrive at Irem. You will leap from your ship onto her shores and you will reach out both hands and you will be welcomed like a stranger, like a friend, like a lost part of a whole. Your crew will not come with you, not here, you will assume. 

You were given a heavy robe and lead along gold-garlanded paths and you watched as people parted before you like the sea, like the zee, like reeds. Some of them whispered to themselves as you walked past. The silk veil you wore fluttered in the faint breeze.

A young man stands before you. He has something to say. You nod, and he speaks.

 “ What is time but string and Fate, 

     A key-to-heart, a broken crate, 

 Pandora’s Box has caused such grief,

   But time heals all and brings relief.       

        So what is it we can’t abide

That causes us to run and hide?

 Clocks will turn and things will change,

Does that make your soul feel strange? “

You will have stepped back, clutched at your robe, and turned away. When you will have looked back, he will have left. His words will be ringing in your ears.

Hands have been guiding yours, gloves smooth against yours. They have been soothing you to the best of their abilities. You have wiped a tear away from a shrouded eye, and you have been walking. You did not know how long you have been walking for.

The people of Irem will have spoken in riddles. They will always have done this, and you will always have known this about them, even before you disembarked. You will not have expected this riddle to cut you to the bone like it has.

You found your future in a tapestry. You weave your future yourself. You will discover your future.

Why did this hurt so much?

The warp and weft have shown you a warmth you had forgotten. Beams of sunlight have kissed your skin and you have squinted, up into the light. Up into the law. You have instinctively flinched, because you have died many times over, and light has no mercy. It had something to say. You have closed your curtains and covered your ears and huddled on the floor.

“COME BACK.” It will demand. You will shake your head. You will feel like a child being scolded.

“THINGS CAN NEVER RETURN TO THE WAY THEY ARE.” It said. You pulled your veil down further, buried your face in the lace. Was this a Judgement speaking, or just your own psyche? 

“I want them back.” You tell it. Your voice is small, and cracks when you speak. You do not know if it can hear you. You do not care.

“MY LIGHT WILL NOT ABIDE IT.” It will have stated. You will have clenched a fist and stood, robes heavy on your shoulders.

“Then I will not abide your light.”

You had broken your shuttle, cracked it down the middle. Your weaving had been ruined. You had a bitter smile on your lips. Your crew had found you, even though you had told them to remain on the ship. You had been crying. 

You will leave Irem. You will stride alongside your crew, your family, back to your ship. You will leave this city of roses and serpents and go home. 

—

A knock sounds at the door to your cabin. You wince, because you have a massive migraine from Irem’s whole past-present-future tense thing. Your first officer comes in with tea, and you could nearly forgive her for that alone.

“Sorry for barging in, Cap’n. Just wanted to check on you after… All that.” She says. You don’t say anything. You don’t need to.

“...What did you see?” She asks, softly. 

“The Sun,” You reply. You hear her breathe in sharply. “I saw sunlight.”

“Were they… I mean…”

You close your eyes. Your veil shifts against your cheeks. “They couldn’t be. Light is Law.”

“What are you going to do, then?”

“Whatever it takes.” You say simply. Your first officer gives you a long, sideways look, before going back to her tea.

“Never much minded the dark myself, you know. Eh, Captain?” she says, elbowing you gently.

You rub your thumb across their compass, where it hangs around your neck. Pointing you home. Pointing you back to them.

You smile.

[the-insouciant-scientist]

A story about coming home, when home means to swallow you whole. A story about what desire for connection can lead you to do. A story about desperation, and freedom being lost, and control masquerading as love. A story about the Presbyterate, the Gracious, and trying to escape the grasp of a cult even as you are dragged back into the fold.

[the-insouciant-scientist]

@fallenlondonficswap @house-of-mirrors Calling this a secret swap fic. I think it counts. Hope you have fun chewing on this one, and that it turned out sufficiently creepy and wet! Always going, but never getting

Unnamed Zee Captain OC & Salt, Teen rating, 2007 words.

Captain’s Journal, 4th November 1863 Above or below the earth, large bodies of water generate superstition like nothing else. Sailor or Zailor, we all know it: we travel upon the waves of a fickle mistress, and it’s best to treat her with respect. Lest she turn her wrath upon your ship next. Doesn’t mean I think it’s all true. Some of the things I hear my crew talk about in the night… Stuff and nonsense. Maybe I’m a fool to be so sceptical, but I’ve sailed for longer than some o’ these folks have been alive. Sometimes wind is just wind. Sometimes a bat is just a d__ned bat. Not everything is a sign. 

Captain’s Journal, 6th November 1863

The whole crew seems to be jumpy today. The bats are more active than I’ve seen them in weeks, and there’s an odd one with ‘em. They’re out there wheeling and turning in the air, but I swear every so often I see a glimpse of white. Didn’t know bats came in that colour. A deckhand claims it’s a god, watching us. I put him to work belowdecks, where hopefully his nerves can settle. Last thing I need is someone stirring up trouble.

Captain’s Journal, 7th November 1863

Aye, that lad, what am I to do with him? This morning I caught him perched on the capstan, trying to lure the little b_____d closer with a handful o’ hardtack. Told him that if he didn’t get down from there right that second, I’d make sure he didn’t get any time above deck until we next reached port. I don’t tolerate this kind of nonsense on my ship. Especially when it drives my men to waste supplies like this. He got down, but still seemed afraid of something. I wouldn’t hurt him. He knows that, right?

Captain’s Journal, 9th November 1863

We’ve gone miles north towards Venderbight at this point, but that bat’s still following. The crew’s even more uneasy than before. Seems to think it’s an omen. Some o’ them have started talking as if they’ll never make it home. Have I been going about this wrong? Perhaps I need to change tactics. Bring out the fiddles and crack open some of the half decent wine, and get their minds off things. 

Captain’s Journal, 12th November 1863

Helped a bit, but not enough. Had a few days there where none of ‘em seemed too nervous, even when that d__n bat decided to hang itself from the lines and stare at them. But now it’s even worse than before. If it is an omen, I want no b___dy part of it. And if it’s just a normal zee-bat, then I want it off my d__n ship. I’ve been having nightmares. Visions of a great and terrible light, calling out to me. I always wake up feeling like I’ve been cut adrift. Unmoored. If that bat doesn’t leave on its own, I swear, I will catch it with my bare hands and fling it into the zee myself. 

Captain’s Journal, 13th November 1863

The deckhand’s gone. The troublemaker. Last anyone heard from him was last night. He was chattering on and on about how it made sense, and how much he’d miss them. How what made sense? Was he planning on abandoning his post? He must have been, because we’ve searched the ship top to bottom, and there’s no sign of him. No missing lifeboats either, is the funny part. The bat has been circling overhead like it’s restless. I tried to shoot it down. It’s behind this, one way or another. Either it spirited one of my crew away, or its presence drove him to madness, and either way, I’m angry. But the second I raised my pistol, no fewer than three of my officers dove to knock it out of my hand. Said that doing that would be a death sentence on us all. I don’t know if I believe that entirely, but the look in their eyes… I do believe that if I had succeeded, curse or not, they would have thrown me overboard for it. Either way I’d be dooming myself. I stood down. That d__n bat just soared higher. I think it knows it won.

Captain’s Journal, 17th November 1863

Headed east towards Frostfound. Some of the crew have been near-begging to visit there, G-d knows why. A few more of them have gone missing and unaccounted for since the first. I’m worried. And, perhaps even more strangely, I’m homesick. It’s odd, really. I don’t have a home to be homesick for anymore, but I still find myself struck by a fear that I’ll never come home again. It’s troubling. 

Captain’s Journal, 18th November 1863

The bat got into my quarters, somehow. Hung itself from my lamp and just chittered at me. There’s something about its eyes that leaves the hairs on the back o’ my neck prickling, but I know killing it’s more trouble than it’s worth. I remembered the deckhand trying to feed it, when I caught him that first time. Worst case scenario, I feed a normal bat a biscuit and I then have a fed bat that expects me to feed it again later. Best case scenario… Well. Maybe I could stand to have a god looking favourably upon me. 

Captain’s Journal, 23rd November 1863

Things seem to have calmed down since I stopped trying to shoo away the bat. The crew seems more at ease, if a bit more melancholy. They can feel however they like, as long as we don’t lose any more. I worry if any more leave, we’ll hardly be able to zail. Judging by our timing, we should make it to Frostfound by tomorrow. Maybe some zhore leave will do their spirits good. 

Captain’s Journal, 25th November 1863

Headed east again. Not everyone made it back, but enough did that we can still zail at a decent pace. My first mate seems out of it. He was one of the last to come back on board before we set zail again. Said he had something important to tell me. He whispered it in my ear, and then went to his cot and fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. It’s called Salt, now, he said.

Captain’s Journal, 26th November 1863

He’s gone too, now. I should have listened from the beginning. I hope that it’s not too late. 

Captain’s Journal, 30th November 1863

The crew’s gone. The lifeboats are missing. Only thing left behind was a note. “Gone home, before we lose the ability to. You should head home too.” I’m alone.

Captain’s Journal, 14th December 1863

It’s been a while, sorry. Didn’t really see the point in writing in this old thing. I don’t think anyone will ever read it. I’m never going to see London again, I think. Least of all because I can’t man this ship all on my own for that long. I’m going East. It feels different, now. I had been drifting alone on this vast, dark zee, and then it’s like a loose gear shifted back into place. My circumstances haven’t changed, but it’s like… Like my understanding of them has.

Captain’s Journal, 18th December 1863

The bat’s back. It had left for a few days, and I thought it had abandoned me. But no, it’s back. I gave it another biscuit. It’s not like I have a crew to feed anymore. Maybe ol’ Salt still wants to keep an eye on me after all. It’s a nice thought, I suppose, to be watched over. When I sleep, I still have those same dreams. Of the light calling out, and the being cast adrift. But they’re not nightmares. I don’t think they ever were. I think they were always it, just trying to say hello. Captain’s Journal, 19th December 1863

I can hear it humming. Hear its song on the currents. I will never go home again. I can feel that loss like something’s been cut out of me, carved scrimshander into my bones. Like an open, bleeding injury. I’ve been without a home for so long, it’s almost surprising to realise how much that hurts. Maybe I just didn’t let myself feel it until now, or maybe it’s only now that I could feel it. Like salt in the wound. Like Salt is in this wound.

Captain’s Journal, 20th December 1863

I’ve gone beyond the edge of every map I have. Its singing is still soft, but it’s getting louder with every minute I keep on zailing. Oh, it aches. It aches. I don’t even have the words to describe this feeling in its entirety. It’s such a lonely god. It’s so lonely. I’m lonely too. 

Captain’s Journal, 21st December 1863

It’s so bright, here. So vivid and green. When did this happen? I am seen. I have seen this before. I dreamt of this, didn’t I? So very long ago. Salt sees me, from its faraway horizon. What is it looking for? What does it see in me? I want to go home, but there’s no home left to go to. No home, no crew, nothing left to hold onto. Just me and my worn old ship, travelling. Why have I come East?

Captain’s Journal, 21st December 1863

It’s silent as the grave, this far out. Nothing to do but keep sailing towards the horizon. Salt’s waiting for me. Well, not waiting, exactly. It’s travelling too. Can’t sit still. Restless. Isn’t that something? A god just as restless as I am. Does it have a home that it can never see again as well? This ache feels like an echo. An echo from a place that has no sound. Can it really be an echo, if there’s no sound?

Captain’s Journal, 21st December 1863 I am not who I was. I suspect that it is not what it once was, either. Nothing starts off this hungry, or this lonely. It’s something learned. Something that has to be honed. Maybe things would have gone differently, if I had listened to its call from the beginning. Maybe I would have known better. Maybe I would have gone home and let myself get rooted somewhere. Or maybe I just would have zailed East even faster. 

Captain’s Journal, 21st December 1863

It calls to me, in its strange and silent way. Asks where I’m going. Asks if I’ll follow.

I call back, in whatever way I can: I’m travelling East. And to the ends of the Earth.

I think that’s all I ever wanted. I think I was created to want like this, and I think this is the only way I can ever be almost content. Not satisfied, never satisfied, but almost content. I think, in a way, this is all it ever wanted, too.

When I’m done with this entry, I’m going to cast this journal into the zee. I’ll need all hands on deck where I’m going, and I only have my own. Maybe she’ll swallow it whole, or maybe she’ll carry it to some new, strange zhore.

But if someone does find this? Against all odds? A word of advice.

If you find yourself followed by a white zee-bat, think. Think about home, and how much you value it. If you think for even a moment that it would break you, never seeing it again, then you turn your ship around and never zail again. For your own good. But if some part of you thrills at the prospect, if some part of you feels like this was what you were always meant for…

Come East. Come and find me. We’ll chase this endless horizon together.

Oh, and one more thing. If you do find this, please throw it back into the zee when you’re done. These words need to travel just as much as I do.

But that’s enough talk. I have a god to follow, and endless zee to cover the distance of.

May Salt look favourably upon you.

I’ll see you soon.

[the-insouciant-scientist]

@fallenlondonficswap @tales-from-the-neath Here's my part of the secret swap! Hope you enjoy. A Stitch in Time

Nyx Darkhelm & Irving Merritt, General Rating, 1118 Words

The sound of a popped stitch. The irritated swish of a gold-furred tail. Nyx’s ear twitched as they moved to inspect the seam of their armscye, and they frowned to see that it had indeed split open, revealing a starched white shirt beneath. They had been on their way to a very important appointment at Beatrice’s, but there was no way they could allow themself to be seen in such a state of disrepair! Appearance was everything. They curled a claw protectively around their golden rose lapel pin as if it might pop off too. Nyx turned their gaze upwards towards the shop signs of Spite, searching. They really didn’t want to have to buy an entirely new suit coat, especially on such short notice, but what choice did they have with so little time? If only they could… ah! There! A tiny little tailor's shop, wedged between a fabric store and a lacemaker. The sign named it as "Violet & Pansy Tailoring". It seemed a friendly enough space, lit from within by gentle yellow lamp-glow. Nyx hurried over, tail sweeping back and forth hopefully. 

A clear, bright bell-sound rang out as they pushed the door open. Nyx heard a little 'oh!' from somewhere near the back of the shop, and then the shop owner came into view from around a corner. She was tall and broad, with twinkling eyes and an impeccably groomed goatee. "Hello, my dear, and welcome to Violet and Pansy! You can call me Irving. How may I help you today?" The shopkeep asked, one hand idly brushing loose thread and tiny fabric scraps from her skirts.

"Hello, Irving, a pleasure to meet you. My name is Nyx Darkhelm, and I was hoping to inquire after a small repair job if that's alright?" Nyx said, gesturing gingerly at their popped shoulder seam. 

Irving approached, murmuring a soft "May I?" and waiting for a response before running a gentle hand along the damage, plucking at the loose thread. "Yes, certainly, I can repair this. Would you mind taking it off? This won't take long at all." Nyx removed their rose pin and then obediently shrugged out of their coat, careful to not damage the shoulder further. They handed it to Irving with a polite nod. "Come, sit with me for a moment." Irving said, gesturing to a couple of brocade-upholstered chairs in the corner. 

They both sat, relaxing slightly into their seats. Nyx smoothed the front of their waistcoat and shook out their sleeves, feeling a little naked without their outer layer. Irving picked through her chatelaine for her needle case and thread scissors. "What fabric is this?" Irving asked, rubbing the raw edge between her fingers with an appraising look. "Parabola-linen?" Nyx nodded, ears swiveling forward to stand proud and tall. "A very fine fabric. Luckily enough, I do enough work with it that I always keep linen thread on hand." Irving said with a smile, before turning and plucking a spool of gently iridescent thread off of a nearby thread stand. 

Nyx watched as Irving made a tiny snip in the seam of their coat lining and reached through to tie off the loose thread. She then threaded the tiniest silver needle they had ever seen with the Parabola-linen thread, and began to sew. Her sewing had an odd hopscotch sort of rhythm to it, going forward and then back to meet the previous stitch. "What kind of stitch is that?" They asked, black eyes glittering with curiosity. 

"A combination stitch. Somewhere between a running stitch and a backstitch, it's sturdy while still being fast." Irving explained. And true enough, by the time she finished speaking she was already tying it off with a neat knot. After snipping her needle free she turned her attention to the lining. She pinched it gently, testing its drape and texture. "Silk," she murmured, "alright, I can work with this." 

The Parabola-linen thread was returned to its place and Irving's hand hovered over a few different threads, deliberating. She finally grabbed a thin, rosy gold silk thread and pulled a line of it through her needle. At this point Nyx was leaned forward in their seat, watching with open intrigue.  

"This is sorrow-silk thread, dyed by a dear friend of mine. It's very fine, but very strong, so you shouldn't have to worry about it snapping." Irving explained, piercing the needle through the hidden side of the lining and then pulling it towards herself. It was stabbed back in directly across from the first stitch, then slipped upwards by a few threads and then darted back over. "And this is a ladder stitch. It's the best way to close up seams like this, from the right side. A bit like a running stitch turned sideways." She said, continuing to sew. Once she had reached the end, her eyes flicked up to watch Nyx's reaction. "Watch this."

She pulled the thread taut, and the seam neatly zipped itself back up into invisibility. Nyx gasped softly, sitting up. "How?" They asked, but Irving just tapped the side of her nose and grinned.

Irving tied off the thread and pulled the knot through to the back. "If you want to learn, I'm open most mornings." Nyx smiled, a hint of their canines showing. Irving took one last look at the seam, brushing a thread clipping away, before nodding in satisfaction and handing the coat back to them. 

"So, how much do I owe you?" Nyx asked, slipping their coat back on and sighing in relief to feel its warmth again. They pinned their rose back to their lapel, and everything felt right in the world again. 

"Owe me? Hmm." Irving mused. "Do you bake?" 

That gave Nyx pause. "I… know of a good bakery? I fail to see how that's relevant, though." They said, tail swishing. 

"In that case, you owe me two small pastries, whatever your favorites are. One for each of us. Come round for tea sometime, and we'll call it even, alright?"

Nyx laughed, a high and delighted sound. "That sounds fair enough to me! Good day to you, Irving. Take care, won't you?" 

"You as well, Nyx." Irving replied, mustache quirking as she smiled. She waved them off, and they returned to the street with a skip in their step. Hm, which way was it they needed to go? Ah, yes, onwards towards Veilgarden, and Beatrice's. With plenty of time to spare, even. 

London's lone fox made their way down the cobblestone road, towards tea and warmth. Their mind was racing, full of excitement about their appointment and what might come of it.

And, just a bit, wondering what pastry they should bring next time they visited.

[the-insouciant-scientist]

Chapter 2 is up! Aiming to get a chapter up per day possibly? We'll see, I suppose afsgd

[the-insouciant-scientist]

@fallenlondonficswap @oleworm For the general swap :-) I saw you'd like to read about Parabolan weirdness and Zailing and I couldn't resist. Hope you enjoy! Downed and Drowned and Never Found Zee Captain and Zailor OCs, general rating, 1621 words.

The Judicious Boatswain’s knuckles went white as he gripped the railing. They were still zailing at a fast pace, headed back from the Khanate towards London with a heavy load of cargo, but… Would it be in time? He flinched hard as his Captain swept past him, his nerves having been frayed nearly to bleeding. “Captain, we need to talk. The crew is uneasy, and I hear there’s been talk of-” He called out to her back. She turned, and he regretted saying anything nigh-immediately. Her gaze was a thousand metre stare that cut into and through him like a scrimshander knife, eyes wide and empty. “Talk of what.” She said flatly. The Boatswain’s grip tightened a fraction further. “Nothing, Ma’am. Go rest. I’ll make sure it’s handled.”

The Captain did not move or breathe or blink for long enough that the Boatswain started to hold his own breath out of fear, but eventually she grunted in assent and turned her haunted gaze elsewhere. The hems of her coat dragged as she curled into herself and turned the corner, shambling out of sight. The Boatswain shivered. A young zailor ran past and he caught them by the arm, ignoring their cry of fear and surprise. “Find the First Mate and tell them they’re to act as Captain until we reach port. And for G-d’s sake, to make sure everyone gets extra rations. If the Quartermaster complains, tell him I said to shove it.” He ordered. The zailor nodded fretfully, gave a squeaked-out ‘yessir!’, and then bolted back in the direction they came from. The Boatswain sighed, shaking out the stiffness in his joints as he followed after his Captain. He already had a very good idea of what he would find, but it was nothing less than his duty to make sure. A knock went unanswered. So did a concerned greeting. Finally he steeled himself and shouldered the door open, one hand on his pistol just in case something went very badly. 

… As expected. The Captain’s quarters were entirely empty. No sign of her beyond a scattered pile of increasingly illegible papers, some old scratch marks at the corners of her windows, and a needlework prayer to Stone knocked to the floor. The Boatswain blanched and returned it to its place on the desk, unwilling to risk a zee-god’s anger on top of their already precarious situation. With luck, She’d be waiting for them in London once she recovered. —

Somewhere beyond the mirror, a form moved slowly through a jungle, gliding through the underbrush as easily as water. A wheel jutted from her spine, spokes spinning as she maneuvered. Steam and coalsmoke billowed from the corners of her mouth with every breath. “Call all hands to man the caps’n, see the cable floked down clear.” A tinny phonograph recording sang within her chest, keeping her on time. Capstan shanty. Raise the anchor. “Heave away an’ with a will boys, for ol’ London we will steer.” Her anchor lifted, bit by bit, and she picked up her pace as it no longer dragged behind her. Ships don’t have voices with which to sing, per se, but song has a way of coming through anyways. Her wooden boards creaked as she stooped under branches. “Rol-lin’ home, rollin’ home, rol-lin’ home across the zee.” The phonograph insisted, crackling softly. Her wheel spun as she turned gently to starboard. Home. Had to come home. No North Star to guide her down here, but her compass-heart knew the way all the same. As sure as Stone’s warmth. “Rollin home to dear Old London, rollin’ home, fair land, to thee.”

A rustling in the undergrowth had her shifting her stance onto her stern, movements slow but deliberate. A gun-arm was raised, and the soft glim-lamps of her eyes narrowed in focus. A tiger padded out from behind a tree, vegetation whispering against its fur. She lowered her weapons. No threat. “Well, aren’t you an interesting sight.” The tiger purred. When she didn’t respond or move, its tail flicked. “What are you doing out here?” “Heave away, you rollin’ king! Heave away, haul away! Haul away, oh hear me sing! We’re bound for London ci-ty.” Her phonograph played, a gentle static hiss clinging to some of the words. She swayed in an invisible current. “Ahh, I see.” It said, stretching languidly. She tilted her head, the ropes and lines of her hair pulling taut against their cleats. “I won’t keep you long, then. I wish you fair winds and following seas.” After a long moment, she nodded, a slow dip of her bow. The tiger disappeared back into the greenery without a sound. Smoke puffed from her mouth as she exhaled, angling herself port and starting on her slow, steady journey once more. Home. She was going home, as all ships do when a voyage is through. Her keel would keep her upright and true. She travelled like this for centuries or seconds until a familiar sight came into view. A mirror in an intricate frame, containing an image of a gas-lit hotel within. A sign that she was nearly home. Her bow breached the glass like a hand through water, and she passed through. The Devoted Captain took a deep breath as she pulled her coat taut around her. She paused for a moment, getting her bearings, when her eyes fell on the fountain in the middle of the lobby. Not the zee-water she craved, but water nonetheless. She trudged over and knelt by the edge of it, trailing a hand in it to bring some to her lips. She drank deeply, like this. Her throat felt like she had been smoking, perhaps, but she couldn’t recall why that would be. A tall and smiling man approached, and sat on the edge of the fountain next to her. She regarded him balefully. Interrupting my drink, she thought to herself. He leaned down to rest a bearded chin in one hand, tilting his head at her. “Are you here to check in? A wind of Fate in your sails has blown you right into my lobby, after all.” He said. The Captain just barely held back on telling him where he could shove his lobby. A sudden ripple of laughter through his shoulders anyways made her wonder if maybe she hadn’t thought that as quietly as she had meant to. She settled for staring at him while pointedly (and loudly) sipping at another handful of fountain-water. “Hm. Very well.” He sighed fondly. “Another red-sky morning, perhaps.” She wiped the extra water off her face with the back of one sleeve and snorted. “Doubt it.” She said, standing up and shaking the wet from her hands. “I’m leaving.” The Manager smiled even wider. “Fair winds, Capstan.” The Devoted Captain turned to him, brows furrowed. “Capstan?” “Hm? I believe that’s a part of a ship, or a variety of shanty pertaining to it. Isn’t it your job to know that, my dear?” He teased, eyes crinkling. “No, you… Urgh. You called me Capstan. The hell did you mean by that?” The Captain near-hissed. “I called you Captain, you must have misheard. Perhaps you have some zee-water in your ears?” The Manager insisted. She clenched her fists by her sides and took a very deep breath to keep herself from doing something very inadvisable, and then turned and stalked out the door. The Manager waved to her retreating form with an airy laugh. Ah, no matter. He’d convince her to stay eventually. —

Wolfstack Docks. Almost there. The Devoted Captain’s boots thunked heavily against wood as she scanned the piers for her ship. She broke into a run when she spotted it, a little worn around the edges but not much worse for wear from her absence. Her First Mate snapped to attention first, then the rest. “Cap’n! We were hoping we’d find you back here. We got all the crates from the Khanate unloaded already, but we’ve been waiting for you.” They said, clasping her hand in theirs to shake firmly. “I owe you all an apology. Things got bad at zee, and I am sorry about that. But right now, I want nothing more than to get back on board my ship. Anyone who needs shore leave can take it, but I…” She gazed hungrily at the deck. “I need to feel her boards under my boots again.” The Judicious Boatswain studied her, not unkindly, before laughing gently. “Well, don’t waste time on our account. Go say hello.” He said. Some level of tension eased in his shoulders as she grinned. The Devoted Captain hauled herself up onto her ship, forgoing the gangplank entirely. Once up she immediately took to running her hands over the railings, relishing the wood under her skin. She was home. More than that, she felt like she was whole again, like some part of her own body had clicked back into place with her return. Her crew returned a few at a time, mostly just trying to keep out of her way as she did her rounds. A good few were taking up her offer of shore leave, it seemed, but not so many that they couldn’t zail. The Fidgeting First Mate joined her at the wheel, hands clasped behind their back. “So where are we off to next, Captain?” She laughed. “How about the Court of the Wakeful Eye? It’s been a while since we’ve paid tribute, and with luck, Stone’s light will bless us as we pass.”

The First Mate inclined their head with a smile. “Sounds like a good enough idea to me.”

The Captain curled her fingers around the wheel, took a deep breath, and prepared to zail once more.

[the-insouciant-scientist]

@fallenlondonficswap @the-dye-stained-socialite

For the general swap. Hope this brings a smile to your face!

A Confession of Whimsy

Clothes Colony & Elias Leroux, General/teen? rating, 1594 words. A Hallowmas fic.

There is no way that this could go wrong, it thought to itself.

A crown-masked reveller walked past the alleyway, singing in a deep voice that boomed like a foghorn, and startled it out of its reverie. It dropped to the ground instinctively, loose silks floating in the air as gravity took over. If anyone had bothered to look, all they would have seen was a loose pile of discarded clothing with a smiling devil mask sitting on top.

Alright. Perhaps there were some ways that this could go wrong.

The Clothes Colony rose only when it was sure no one else lurked nearby. It fussed with its fabrics, making sure each “arm” was well stuffed and that no “skin” was showing. A single wanderlusty glove could mean catastrophe, after all. London’s streets were not as friendly as Polythreme’s. Quite literally. It shuffled the mask back into an approximation of a face, even trying to line up some buttons behind the eyeholes to mimic the glimmer of hidden eyes.

A Perfectly Normal Human Person dressed in Hallowmas costume stumbled out of the alley. One shoe went backwards as they tried to lean against a wall and play it cool. A whisper of fabric travelled down one pant leg, and the errant footwear righted itself. They nodded politely to a couple of drunk young Bohemians, who did a triple take as they went on their way.

A seamless disguise indeed. They puffed up slightly with pride. Who would ever suspect them of being anything other than Human? No one, that’s who.

They made a show of looking around with their mask, because humans generally only see out the front of their faces, and then shambled in the direction that had the most excited chatter and music.

It was the most beautiful thing they’d ever seen. People dressed in so many fine costumes (and how they ached to take pieces of them into themselves!), lights dazzled like polished cloak-clasps, and singing rang out from every corner. They were so overcome that they nearly floated away for a second. 

Oh, they simply had to talk to everyone! They turned to the person nearest to them, clasping their gloves firmly around hers. “We are so pleased to meet you! We have never been here be-fore!” They said loudly, and not entirely with anything that could be considered a mouth. The reveller squeaked in surprise at being grabbed and scurried off, leaving her glove behind as she slipped away. A gift! A lovely Hallowmas gift, just for them, how kind! Stuffing it into what could charitably be called their chest, they glanced eagerly around. Who could they greet next? 

"Hello good-day!" It called out to lithe person in an infant mask. "Happy Hallowmas!" The person perked up, obviously delighted to see such an impressive costume, yes yes! The person grasped at their devil-masked partner's hand and pointed in their direction. An introduction! The Clothes Colony shuffled hopefully towards them. "It is good to meet you!" 

"Good to meet… you… too?" The devil-masked reveller said shyly. The one in the infant mask elbowed him gently. "I mean, the pleasure is all mine! Happy Hallowmas." He corrected himself. The Colony reached out and shook his hand vigorously, arms flopping excitedly around with every shake. 

"Happy Hallowmas, and good-bye! We are so pleased to have met you!" They said, nodding hard in lieu of a smile. They would have loved to stay and talk more, but there were so many people to meet! So many confessions to give and receive! So much wine to drink? Probably not that. Too much risk of staining. They spun on one heel, errant shoe nearly getting dizzy again, and waved as they made their way back into the crowds. And to think that no one even knew that they were made of clothes! A master of disguise at a masquerade truly is twice hidden.

"Was that… what?" The devil-masked reveller asked, levelling a confused grimace at their retreating form. The infant-masked one cackled. 

"No bloody idea. Rubbery, maybe?" They said with a sharp grin. 

"That was not a rubbery person. Absolutely not." He responded. 

"Didn't look like there were bones in there, darling."

The devil-masked reveller shook out the hand that whatever it was had shaken. Their grip had been very firm, but weirdly flexible and dense. "Uh, no, no bones." He said. His partner crowed in triumph. "Dooooesn't mean it's Rubbery." He followed up. The infant-masked reveller groaned, and smacked his shoulder. He caught their hand and kissed it with a smile. 

"Alright, alright, fine." They said, rolling their eyes theatrically. "Still, that's a mystery that'll haunt me forever."

The devil-masked reveller swept them off their feet and they shrieked. "Not if I haunt you forever first." He teased, and carried them off in search of more wine as they sighed happily.

In the meantime, the Clothes Colony had amassed a little hoard of new parts and couldn't be happier. Lost gloves, a discarded silk domino mask, even a single scarlet stocking were eagerly added to their bulk. Someone had even stacked a hat on top of theirs! How lovely! But ah, still so much to do. They hurried onwards with delight in their chest. 

And promptly tripped and fell onto a fellow celebrant.

"Ah!" They said, voice flat but high. "Sorry, so sorry, we did not mean to-" 

A pleasant laugh sounded from beneath them before a mellow contralto voice came through. "Hey, it's okay, I promise! Are you alright?" The person asked, gently helping them back to standing. A loose crocheted baby sock clung to one of their wrists and they regarded it with amusement. "Here, I think this belongs to you." They said, offering it back to them. The Colony took it back carefully and led it back to its home in the thumb of their left glove. 

What a close call! But their quick thinking and masterful sneakiness once again had protected their identity-

"Apologies if this is forward of me, but," the stranger quirked a grin, "are you a Clothes Colony?" Their gant moth mask glimmered in the low light. 

Ack! Agh! How could this have happened? They had hidden their nature so perfectly, how could this stranger see through them so quickly? They shook their head emphatically, crossing what passed for their arms in front of themself in an ‘x’. "No, we are Human, what is a Clothes Colony, good-day to you, we-are-pleased-to-meet-you-good-bye." They insisted as they scurried backwards. A seamless cover up indeed. A flawless recovery. 

Until they tripped again, over the exact same cobble. They yelped and managed to right themself near-perfectly, except. 

Except for their backwards shoe, who realized too late what it had done wrong again and decided to cut its losses by just giving up entirely and walking away on its own. It was only after much hissing and whispering from the other garments that it sulked back into place.

"No, no, it's okay! I've met clothes colonies before, when I visited Polythreme." The celebrant explained. They perked up at that. This stranger had been to their home? "I always love meeting you all, you're so friendly. I'm Elias, by the way."

The Clothes Colony nodded enthusiastically. Yes, they were friendly! Very friendly! "We heard of a festival of masks and costume and secrets. We wanted to see for our selves and so we came across the zee to say hello and make new friends." It chattered. "The people here are nice and they think we are a people too because we have come in dis-guise! How did you tell otherwise?" 

Elias looked for a second as if they were trying very, very hard not to laugh. "You're about ten kilos sopping wet, my love." They said. "And really, no one has noticed?" 

"Not a single person!" The Colony proclaimed proudly. No less than a dozen people throughout the room were sporadically glancing at them in curiosity, confusion, suspicion, or all three. Most of that dozen were missing smaller pieces of their costumes. 

"That's… impressive." Elias settled on. They tried for an encouraging smile. "But if you're amenable, I do have an idea that might make things a little easier for you.” 

"Oh?" They said curiously. 

"You want to experience this festival as a human does, yes? And I'm a bit overstimulated from all the noise and touch. So, why don't we work together? If you understand what I'm asking." Elias said, a delighted grin tugging at their cheeks. "Only caveat is that I'll be doing the wheeling around. You can still talk to whoever you like, though." 

The Clothes Colony could have jumped for joy if that didn't risk their smaller articles of clothing going flying. "Yes, yes, you shall wear us! We shall roam these streets together!" They said, wasting no time in getting extremely cozy with Elias. 

"That sounds wonderfu- oh! Alright, oh my!" Elias laughed as clothing squirmed into place. Some of the smaller articles found a proper place on them, but most of the larger ones contented themselves with simply wrapping around them like a Tomb-Colonist's bandages. Elias gave a pleased hum as they were gently squeezed. It was surprisingly calming, like a full body hug. They no longer felt on the brink of an anxiety-headache. That was a relief. 

"We wish to play a game. Apple bobbing! We have teeth. With which to pick up the apple!" The Colony said excitedly. 

"Whatever you like, my dear." Elias replied with a smile, and wheeled on towards the game stands. 

[the-insouciant-scientist]

And here we are with chapter 4!

[the-insouciant-scientist]

@fallenlondonficswap @half-life-citizen For the secret swap. I hope you enjoy this, it was a lot of fun to write! Memoirs of a Surface Traveller Unnamed Tomb Colonist character, Teen(?) rating, 1509 words. Slight warnings for violence and body horror, but both are pretty mild.

I was someone. Please, if nothing else, believe me: I was someone. Down here, my titles are useless, my wealth has been squandered and stolen, and even my finery is naught more than rags. To look at me, you could hardly tell where my clothes end and the bandages begin. Why did I ever come to this forsaken underground place? What good would it ever have brought me aside from a moment’s amusement at the novelty of this damp, dark city that England once loved? If only I had known. If only I had known. There is a sensation, a soft fluttering, in my chest as I try to find my words. I fear it is not as metaphorical as I would hope. I fear I may not have much time. And that is why I must write. I think I intended it as a holiday, which is the ironic part. I had heard such wonders. I thought, at least if they were exaggerated, I could still come back home to my life and my love and be able to brag about what I had seen. Tell everyone I knew tales of how I descended into the depths of the earth like a modern Orpheus, and came back out of this underworld singing.

I don’t think I can remember the last time I sang. The Cumean Canal was beautiful, but as it closed behind us, I remember a stab of anxiety lancing through my heart. I should have listened to it. I should have stayed upon that d__n boat and let it take me home. Hindsight is always so clear. It’s a bitter thing to realise. I was my own Cassandra, and I was doomed to not heed my warnings. London seemed so much smaller than it had been in the stories, from the time before it fell. It was darker than I’d expected. I’d known it was underground, of course, so far from sunlight or any other illumination, but I remember it still taking me aback. I felt like if I closed my eyes then I’d just cease to exist, cast adrift into an endless black void. You can likely guess that I tried to stick to the best lit streets, just in case.

I had so many plans. So many things to experience down here. I wanted to taste mushroom wine and sample prisoner’s honey, visit the carnival and the theatre, and so much more. I wanted to try things that no one else I knew ever had, and wear that like a badge of honour. Anyone could visit far off and exotic places on the surface, but visiting London was almost unheard of since its disappearance. I craved that novelty like nothing else. I suppose, in a horrific twist of fate, I did experience a novelty here beyond anything my friends could ever fathom. I died, and then I came back to tell the tale. I think I had just passed from Covent Garden Veilgarden into Spitalfields M Spite when I felt that unseen blade pierce my heart, tearing through my upper body, and then everything went black. My ribs ache just thinking about it. I don’t want to think about the possibility of that being something else, causing that ache. Maybe I should write faster, but I can’t risk this running into illegibility. I need to make sure my story is known.

I really thought that was it, that I was done for. That’s how it’s supposed to go, isn’t it? You die, and then what happens next is generally up for debate, but I have never once heard “you come back to your own body” as an option being argued. I might have fainted when I saw the Boatman, or screamed. Death was a bit of a blur for me in all honesty. I think I remember playing chess, but surely that’s incorrect. What I do remember was waking up in my own skin, back aching and a sense of loss taut in my chest. I had been moved out of the street by some good samaritan or another, but the news they broke to me made me wish I had never come back to life. Did you know that if you die in this cavern, sunlight becomes as deadly as cyanide to you? I’m sure you know that, my dear reader, but it was news to me at the time. I didn’t pretend to understand why or how, I just knew what it meant: I could never go home again. What had been intended to be a few days’ vacation had become a life sentence. I had fashioned myself as Orpheus, in this tale. I hadn’t known I was to be doomed as Eurydice. I still don’t know who killed me. I can only guess at the motive. I suppose I seemed an easy mark, with my fine clothes and sun kissed complexion. I suppose when you’ve lived in a damp cave that you can’t even properly die in for your whole life, stabbing someone so you can rob them in peace hardly seems like the worst thing you can do. Sometimes, on melancholy days, I wonder if they ever realised how much more they took from me that day than just money. It’s been many years since then. Some days I think I’ve forgiven them. Other days I think if I ever saw them, and knew for certain it was them, I would kill them with my bare hands. Most days I just hope they thought it was worth it, because then at least one of us could be pleased with that day. Anger takes energy I simply don’t have anymore. It’s been too long, and I am so tired.

Dust flakes from my hand and wrist as I write, try as I might to keep myself whole. Whatever it is that has made a home inside of me seems restless. I am afraid. I must keep my pen to paper if I am to have any hope. But yes, that was the first thing they told me: that I could never return to the surface. The second thing that they told me was of a place to the north, although they didn’t say it with the same strange weight I sometimes hear. A place for other people who had died, and didn’t find London as welcoming anymore. They said it as if it was just another holiday, but I could see the distaste behind their expressions. They worded it like it was my choice, but I know a platitude when I hear one. I had come back to life, yes, but I was still too dead for the truly living to tolerate. Either I would come to this place with my dignity still intact, or I would be treated less than human until I broke down and came here anyway.

My pride is quite dear to me, and was the only thing I truly had left as far as I could see. I took a steamer across the s zee to the port of Venderbight, and I’ve lived here ever since. Even now, after all these decades, I still struggle to think of it as home. I miss the sun. I miss real wine, and the influence I held, and I miss the people I once knew. Above all else, I miss when death was simple. Man was not made to come back from such a thing, and I fear this disrespect for the laws of existence may have brought about some new horror. The fluttering in my chest has progressed into a frantic scraping, and I shudder to feel it. I do not know what is happening. I fear that, in a horrible instance of dramatic irony, I will not survive whatever it is. Please, you must understand. I was important, once. I was wealthy, and powerful, and I donated to the poor and helped the sick and I was a good person, I was good, what have I done to deserve this? Oh G-d. Oh dear G-d. Please, I don’t want to die. I’ve changed my mind, I’m happy to have come back, really! It was a gift and I should have been more grateful because

Oh G-d I’m not ready. Please. I can feel my chest cracking apart like the spine of a book and it hurts and please, please remember me, please hear me, I was a person I was alive I was someone I was someone I was so _______ (You flip the paper over, searching for a date, or a name, or anything identifiable, and come up empty. There is no way of telling who wrote this memoir, or any way of finding it out. There is nothing at all to denote its author aside from a scattering of dust, flecked with shed scales from a moth’s wings.) (The story will be remembered, as all stories are, but no one will ever know whose story it was.) (Perhaps it will be enough, or perhaps not.)

[the-insouciant-scientist]

And with that, the story is complete for now! To anyone who's been reading this: thank you. It really does mean the world to me.